


Long Nights

by Saxifactumterritum



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 07:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16929195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: between orders, Athos can't sleep, and something seems to be up with Porthos





	Long Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingmonsters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters/gifts).



> For the prompt 'not that I'm complaining, but are you always this hot?' from writingmosters, I think was asking for Athos fic but lol. Porthos. This is from Tumblr, I just cleaned it up a tiny bit and posted it here

Athos lies awake for a really long time. The light’s fading around them and the night’s quieting to nothing, just the rustle of grass and trees and small animals, the night birds calling to each other now and then, the sound of the stream they’re near. d’Artagnan’s snoring. Athos bundles up his cloak and puts it over his head, blocking out the erratic sleep-sounds. It’s not only d’Artagnan: nearby someone farts, two someones are fucking a little way away, someone else is grunting with the effort of joining in from a distance. There are coughs, groans, nightmares, gastric gymnastics, snoring. They’re moving between positions and have bedded down for a few hours, they’ve got to be up and moving again before morning comes. That’s not even getting started on the men set to keep watch - the quiet chat as they pass, the crunch of their boots, one of them’s whistling. Athos groans (joining the cacophony) and rolls over. He bumps into d’Artagnan’s knees. He rolls the other way and bumps into Porthos. Athos considers yelling in frustration but Porthos’s big hand lands heavily on his chest, gropes around for a minute, then Athos is yanked and tugged over onto his side, pressed against Porthos’s shoulder until Porthos shifts. 

 

“Thanks,” Athos whispers. Porthos pats his face, hopefully by accident. 

 

Athos lies still in his new position for a while, stuffing his cloak under his head, trying to zone out and push the noises away. Not focusing on them helps, focusing on listening out for an owl helps, focussing on the stream helps. Listening to the water makes him shiver, thinking of how cold it was gathering some for cooking and cleaning earlier. Porthos stripped off and bathed in it, deciding his desire to be clean out-weighed his desire to be warm, and some of the men joined him. Athos had not. Athos is sensible; they’re in the middle of nowhere, no-one but soldiers for miles, nothing but the churned earth of the front and ruined villages, scars burnt into the land, who would value cleanliness in such a place? Clearly Porthos - soaking wet and naked as a babe he’d sat by the fire next to Athos shivering. Athos feels his own shiver go down his spine. As the light goes so does any warmth. The men press close to keep the heat but the day hadn’t got much sun, the earth is cold and hard seeping up into his bones turning him cold and hard too. The two men over in the trees reach a noisy but stifled climax and whoever was playing along groans in frustration. Athos listens to his attempts for a while longer then whoever he is gives up. Those three are probably warm from their exertion. Athos considers exerting himself, but he’s captain now and anyway he’s crammed tight between his two companions, right near the middle of the knot of men. Even an inch of privacy would be better than this. Besides, he’s cold and annoyed to be awake and annoyed about their orders - they lack supplies, as always. They’re supposed to be moving closer to Alsace for whatever reason, if the important men in Paris ever have a reason… He’s cold. It inches into him and eeks him out of himself - he feels pale and like he’s becoming one with the mud.

 

“C’mere,” Porthos mutters, somehow a little bit away again, big hand groping around to find Athos and tug and pull him again, arms grappling until he has Athos close against his chest. “I’ll keep you warm.”

 

“I’m not cold,” Athos lies. 

 

“Maybe I am, then,” Pothos says. 

 

He steals Athos’s blanket and his cloak, huffing and shifting until both are spread over them along with Porthos’s blanket. He reaches around and Athos feels d’Artagnan dragged closer against his back. d’Artagnan never wakes, keeps on snoring away. Porthhos’s arm is under Athos’s head, pillowing it, his other arm loose over Athos’s side, breath hot against Athos’s hair and skin. Athos relaxes into the cocoon of warmth. Porthos is in just an undershirt, the rest of his things discarded for his swim - Athos thinks Porthos might be sleeping on them, save his belt and sword which must lie by his head like Athos’s. Always within reach. Athos remember Porthos used to have a habit of holding a knife close and he checks, tugging himself away a little and feeling over the ground and against Porthos’s side and chest to assure himself he’s not going to get poked. Porthos yanks him in tight again, holding him in a clench he can’t escape from, until he relaxes against Porthos’s chest. Clearly he is to sleep here, like this. That’s not too bad, Athos decides. Porthos is warm. Hot, in fact, giving off heat. Athos shifts and feels sweat against his forehead where Porthos’s neck and shoulder and body meets, feels Porthos’s beard damp. 

 

“Are you always this hot?” Athos asks. “Not that I’m complaining.”

 

“Told you you were cold,” Porthos says. 

 

“Shh,” d’Artagnan mumbles, sleepy, already snoring again almost before he’s woken to chastise them. He has a point about being quiet, though.

 

Athos goes about his explorations silently. First he warms his hand against Porthos’s side, then he rests it against the back of Porthos’s neck, open to the air and slowly cooling even as Porthos’s skin heats and dampens against Athos’s palm. Athos puts his now-nicely-cool knuckles against Porthos’s cheek and Porthos sighs, turning into the touch. Next Athos sets about carefully feeling over Porthos’s skin, the places he knows recent scrapes and cuts lie hidden, places he’s seen are sore from Porthos’s movements, places he thinks maybe, possibly. He knows Porthos very well and it’s habitual to observe him for his well being by now. Athos finds a scrape up Porthos’s side over his ribs that’s warm to the touch but not hot or swollen. A bruise at Porthos’s thigh, from the twitch of Porthos’s leg when Athos’s fingers pressed gently there. Nothing that might infect. Athos shifts again and turns his head so he can listen to Porthos’s breathing and run through Porthos’s words and tone today. Perhaps some congestion, a very slight wheeze as he falls asleep and his breathing deepens. 

 

“You have a fever,” Athos accuses. “You’re unwell.”

 

“‘m’fine,” Porthos whispers, dismissing it without giving it a thought. He already knows, then. Athos considers. 

 

“Hmm,” he eventually settles on. 

 

“Go to sleep,” Porthos says, sounding more awake and frustrated, giving up on soothing Athos. Which is what he’s been doing, not falling asleep but trying to encourage Athos to fall asleep through example, lulling him into a false sense of security with sleepiness and deep breathing and quiet and warmth. Athos sits up. “Athos.”

 

Athos ignores Porthos’s protest and picks his way carefully through the bodies, searching until he finds their young medic, monsieur Pepin. Barely fifteen in all probability, but insistent and as long as they’re not at the front Athos can hardly deny him. They leave him back with the messenger boys, when they meet battle. Athos crouches and wakes him, now, shushing him as he opens dark bleary eyes. Pepin nods and sits up not speaking, rubbing his sleep away and stretching before giving Athos an enquiring look. 

 

“Something for a fever?” Athos murmurs. 

 

Pepin lifts the satchell he’d had tucked under his head in sleep and finds Athos some herbs with a shrug, lifting his battered mug that’s on his belt with his sword to show that it needs to be stewed as a tea. Athos sighs and Pepin restows the medicine: they can’t light a fire here, it’ll draw attention and leave too much of a mark. Pepin has a look through what’s in the satchel but comes up with nothing more. Athos looks around for a solution. 

 

“Cold water?” he whispers. 

 

Pepin shrugs again and shows his small satchel - he’s right, they haven’t got much. Their supplies never came. What Pepin does have is mostly things picked when found. Athos sighs and starts to straighten but Pepin catches his arm and rumages excitedly not through the satchell but through the cloak and clothing he’s sleeping on and in. A moment later he comes up with a small pouch, opening it and revealing curled and dried chips of bark. 

 

“I forgot I had this,” Pepin whispers. “Willow bark.”

 

Athos hesitates. The bark is quite an effective pain relief and he’s seen that it can put a stop to a fever, sometimes. They might be needing it if they get into a fight. Pepin plucks up a larger piece of bark and passes it to Athos, though, face serious. 

 

“A fever can be dangerous,” Pepin says. 

 

Athos knows that, he’s seen it. Porthos was often feverish, years and years ago, and Athos has seen Aramis treating him, worrying over him. This time he’s fairly sure there’s not much wrong but Pepin is right and besides. And it’s Porthos. He’s necessary. Athos nods and takes the willow bark, picking his way back to Porthos. It’s made easy for him to find his spot; Porthos is sat up waiting. He gets Athos back into an irritable cocoon of blankets and mutters about strapping him down. 

 

“Chew on this,” Athos says, putting the bark in Porthos’s mouth. It has the added bonus of quieting him. For a moment, anyway. 

 

“Don’t you go putting bits of forrest in my mouth, Athos de la Fère,” Porthos growls, low and quiet and threatening. 

 

“It’s willow. Chew it.”

 

Porthos chews. Athos can hear him, hears him swallowing. They lie there quietly for a while, Porthos chewing the bark, Athos listening once more to the sounds of men around them. Porthos sighs after a bit and spits the bark out, shivering and turning his head, pulling Athos close. 

 

“You’ll be better in the morning,” Athos says, firmly. He will accept no less. 

 

Porthos nods, sinking into Athos’s body, still shivering slightly. Athos holds on to him and ignores the damp of his sweat. This close Porthos’s heavy arm block Athos’s ears to the rest of the camp a bit and Athos can just hear Porthos’s breathing; Porthos is afraid to sleep. Perhaps ‘afraid’ is wrong. Maybe worried. Maybe wary. He has nightmares when he’s feverish, Athos has sat through them before. Rest, though, is the best medicine. Athos relaxes himself and deepens his breathing, unconsciously repeating the exercise Porthos started earlier, but flipped - now it’s Athos tucking the blankets around them, Athos’s arm pillowing Porthos’s head, Athos pulling Porthos closer for warmth. Porthos relaxes, the shivers subsiding a little, his head pressed to Athos’s shoulder. The willow bark will help the headache, too, and Athos can tell, a bit later, as the medicine takes away the pain, Porthos uncurls from him a little, his arm relaxes, his head tips a little back no longer pressed so urgently against Athos’s skin. They both sleep then, warmth between them. 

  
  


When Athos wakes he’s alone. Not alone, he’s squashed against d’Artagnan and someone’s boots are irritatingly close to his head and there’s someone very close the other side, snoring loudly. Not  _ alone,  _ but Porthos is gone. It’s still dark but with the ever-so-slight feeling that day is about to break and he needs to get up anyway so he goes to the stream, supposing Porthos has walked down there. He’s right - Porthos is sat on the bank, hunched over himself, fully dressed with his armour and weapons and everything. Athos sits beside him. 

 

“Coudn’t sleep?” he suggests. 

 

“Could, just didn’t,” Porthos says. “I woke up.”

 

“Are you fighting fit?” Athos asks. Porthos’s lips twitch. He still looks sweaty and a little glassy-eyed. 

 

“Fit enough,” Porthos says. “About ready to fight.”

 

“I’ll watch your back, today,” Athos says. 

 

“Ah, captain, you’ll watch over your men,” Porthos reprimands. “I’ll watch my back.”

 

Athos doesn’t argue. They sit side by side there, Athos’s hand just resting on Porthos’s shoulder until the men are roused by the watch and d’Artagnan comes to find them. 


End file.
